The Musing of an Old Mind
by Monitor
Summary: Fett is old, older than his dad had been, and when you get old, you think about death a lot more. Story on the lesson from kindergarten that yes, even the plant in the plastic cup dies, as do we. (A Joad story)


Disclaimer: anything you recognize from the movies is not mine.

This is just a little something that started with an image while listening to a song, and evolved into this. I like it, it's ok. You can kind of tell the point of it in Boba Fett's thoughts, but if the train has left behind you and really want to know, email me, and I'll get back to you when I check my email. I hope you like it!

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She sat forward, the palms of her hands resting on her chin, her knees tucked to her chest. She didn't seem to want to turn fully away from him, so her face was slanted sideways, her eyes seemingly fixed on the rolling waves of the mysterious and intimidating ocean.

He watched her, knowing that even though she seemed to be looking out at the ocean, she was really watching him, waiting for him to do something, He had trained her well. A strand of her short black hair had fallen across her face, arcing down to her cheek; it looked like an ugly scar through her forehead, running past her eye along the bridge of her nose an ending in a little swirl on her cheek. It was strange how the shadows of that strand seemed to distort her young boyish features. Frowning, he reached over, gently pulling it back and tucking it with the rest of her hair behind her ear. She turned a smiled at him. He forced his eyes to remain on hers, not to look at the tiny scar on her cheek. He knew, had always known, that everything that had happened to her would cut him like a hot knife, but that scar, her very first, was wholly his fault. He should have been stronger, faster; he should never have left her.

"What's wrong?" She frowned, her eyes searching his.

He turned away, not smiling. He and his daughter shared a special bond, and she might see his thoughts in his eyes. "The hunt." A good, simple answer that held so many meanings.

"Stop worrying." Her chiding and his worrying. He guessed that's what he got for being old.

"I'll stop when I'm dead."

Joad nodded. Death was a rebelious business partner; you always had to keep him a scythe-length away from so as not to give him a chance to strike.

It was a rare night of clear sky and time together at home. The stars were clear and sharp in the sky, the breeze brisk as it ruffled their clothes, their identical, except in length, black hair, blowing sea spray in their shockingly similar faces. Hers the smooth, unblemished face of an eighteen-year-old, his the scarred and pitted face of a man hardened by violence and well beyond his prime.

"Look at the stars," he ordered softly, her gaze having wandered back to him. She did so. "Look," he gestured with a hand at the stars that were not often seen on Kamino. "Look how they shine for you."

Snort. "They don't shine for me."

"They shine for everyone, but here, they shine for you alone.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She had turned to face him again, frowning.

"Fine," he lied. But the truth sat uncomfortably in his gut. It was a strange feeling, one he had not felt before, but he knew what it was: Death was finally working his scythe around Boba Fett's neck. Death must be pleased, he thought wryly. Ever since his father died, he had worked side-by-side with Death, and Death had even reached a bony hand toward him from time to time. The feeling was certain.

He had always wondered what death was like. Painful? Peaceful? More and more it looked painful, the twisted faces of the people he killed hardly ever held peaceful looks of bliss and enlightenment. Some did, however, some smiled; but those deaths had been quick and sudden, and somehow Boba Fett doubted his would be so merciful. He would have to wait and see.

But what did Death _look_ like? Was he really the ghoulish skeleton clad in black robes hefting a black scythe? Or was he a form from your past, a figure already shifted into the otherworld, someone to ease the passing. Or, perhaps, an old enemy, judging by some of the looks of terror on some faces. Or perhaps that terror was simply body reaction, the body distressing because its time is gone, but the spirit rejoicing because it is finally free. He, personally, always saw death in the form of his father. Perhaps Boba would finally grasp his father's hand, hear his father's voice again, and they would talk like old friends about their adventures, as equals.

Jango Fett's murder had made Boba Fett hard and cold, independent and strong; consequently, a ruthless killing machine, the perfect bounty hunter. As terrible as it sounded, maybe his life was spoiling his daughter, his lovely Joad. He was the cushion for her to fall back on; he protected her from the hungry wolves bellow. Maybe if she did not have that protection, she would become independent and cold, more capable at surviving. She would survive longer without a cushion. Maybe she was better off, in terms of surviving, without him.

He rose, Joad followed suite. They looked at each other, almost awkwardly, until he pulled her into an unbreakable hug. He pulled her closer yet, until he could hear her bones creaking in protest. She hugged back, though not as strongly. Boba could hear her heart beat and it beat akin to his for a second, before breaking away and become unsynchronized.

How often had he wished to say good-bye to his father? To tell him that he loved him? That he had trained his son well? Often as a boy, not as much now. Distractions in the hunt her deadly, so he best tell Joad his good-byes now.

"I love you," he whispered.

In his strong arms, he felt her tense, her muscles suddenly tight. She looked up at him and he knew she understood. It was Death's scythe that pried them apart as he hovered over her father, breathing down his neck, eager to finally triumph over the weakening will to live.

"Good-bye," she called after him as he ducked through the doorway. Clouds that had come up from behind them were slowly eating up the stars that had shone so brightly for the last of the two people Boba Fett had ever loved in his entire life. Rain started to fall.

Seized by a sudden and wild impulse, Joad moved. Running inside, she vaulted over the couch, running to the door and pushing it open. She ran out into the white sterile halls, sprinting along the shimmering corridors, afraid she would be too late.

When Joad got outside again, the rain had turned to huge, cold drops that instantly seeped through her clothes. He was almost gone, _Slave I_'s engines were running already, and Boba Fett sat in the cockpit, busy at the controls. As if sensing her presence, he looked over at her, and they locked eyes. Joad soaked in the last view of her father, strong and unafraid of death. His face, his hands, his neck, his hair. So close to gone, but with only her good-bye in his ears.

"I love you," she shouted. Had the engines of _Slave I_ been off, he still would not have been able to hear her, but he seemed to understand. He nodded, smiled, and was gone. The heat of the engines as he blasted away made the drops around her turn to steam and blew her hair away from her face and dried the front of her clothes, but she didn't move until _Slave I _was gone, away from her sight, carrying her father with it.

She would know when she was alone, with no cushion between her and the universe.

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If appropriate and if I get a good idea, I'll write the next chapter, but it's not really all that necessary. If you have any ideas, please tell me! Thanks for reading, and please review. Why? Because if you review, usually I go check out your stuff...if you write.

Oh, and brownie points for the one who can guess what song this came from.


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